


this is you, and this is your badness level

by stratos



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brief Mention of Violence, Creativitwins, Deceit is the queen of apathy, Deceit likes to be needlessly extra, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Insecure Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Insecure!Roman, Jealousy, M/M, Morality | Patton Sanders is a Good Friend, Multi, Pining, Protective Morality | Patton Sanders, Roman is bad at feelings, Sibling Rivalry, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, but he really cares, jealous!roman, sympathetic dark sides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratos/pseuds/stratos
Summary: Roman watches as Patton keeps stroking Remus’ hair with tenderness and tells himself he isn’t bothered. Not even a little.--Alternatively; Remus gets injured, Patton cares for him, and Roman pines.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Deceit Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Family - Relationship, LAMP - Platonic, Platonic Patton & Remus
Comments: 34
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have a very soft spot in my heart for royality, can you tell?

It begins, as most disasters do, with a horse.

Well. Several horses. 

Okay fine. Maybe a fleet of war horses dressed in luxurious mix of ribbons and imposing glistening armor and armed with prickle teeth and throaty war-barks and a deep hunger.   
  


_Alright._

A murderous mob of ravenous equines that feast exclusively on the color green, because it’s ugly and nauseating and Roman is sick of sharing half of his land.

It’s been three months since they all came together in Thomas’ living room, all sat down and criss-crossed-apple-sauced because it was one of those Very Serious talks. It’s been three months since they all sat down, every single one of them, Janus and Remus included, and just _talked._ Long-repressed things were admitted, feelings were shared, devotion was expressed with flair, tears were shed, a lot of emotional music played, yada-yada, you know how it goes. Eventually, all of that sobbing and ramped up hand gesturing culminated in a tentative agreement.

It’s been three months, four days, and sixteen hours, according to Logan’s count, since they merged their pristine, cozy little mind palace with the ugly, decrepit, sad, upside-down-Stranger-Things-wannabe _other-scape_ that held back every one of Thomas’ “dark” sides. (Post-treaty signage dictates that the term “dark side” isn’t applicable anymore, and hadn’t been a very fair assessment of their contributions in the first place.)

It was okay at first. Sort of. Having Janus around for breakfast wasn’t _awful_ , per say. He offered to scramble eggs and make toast and omelettes for all of them that first morning. Virgil wouldn’t eat any of it until he watched Janus take a bite of the eggs on his plate first. 

Roman, on the contrary, wasn’t one to let an excellent meal sit. Janus’ first few spreads of breakfast were _unparalleled_. 

(Look, Roman _loves_ Patton to bits and pieces, but most if not all of his family meals are usually experiments gone destructively, horribly, irreversibly wrong. Roman’s lost count of the times he’s had to comfort Patton after a recipe he poured hours into ends up in flames, or worse, _tears_. The few recipes that go according to plan are the freaking _best_ though - Roman’s all-time favorite Patton-perfected-dish will _always_ be the cookies he makes. They’re the kind that melt in your mouth, every bite imbued with goodwill and compassion and everything warm and nice, every happy feeling stuffed into a gooey lopsided mess of chocolate.

Mm. Janus could never.)

Delicious tangent aside, though, seeing Janus in casual-wear everyday still felt off-putting to Roman, even after all these months.

That, he could deal with perfectly well. What he couldn’t deal with was how much of the imagination he’d had to cough up so that _Remus_ of all sides could feel included. Logan had even stepped up when they had all collectively lobbied to give Remus his “fair share” of control.

He said this was part of making Thomas more whole. Mending their past biases and learning to control and undress Remus’ contributions, not just repress them.

Roman had made his distaste clear with a concise, strongly worded argument with a newfound level of maturity that Logan had applauded him for...  
  


_Okay_. So _maybe_ Roman had pouted and sulked petulantly and told Remus that he sucks (among other things), and Patton had warned him about his less-than-stellar language, and Virgil had made fun of him, and Remus had cackled and leaned into his space to trap him in a headlock, and Logan had sighed and tried reigning them all in, and Janus had sat placidly, chin resting on his knees, quietly taking stock of all of their expressions with sinister repose, and Thomas had made that constipated face he always makes when things aren’t Boding Well. 

In the end, Roman had settled on relinquishing a _third_ of his land. As a _treat_. And even _that_ compromise had been like pulling teeth. 

Roman can’t _help_ it, okay? These are his things, his trees, his gardens, his space, his home, his friends, his life, his _family_ , his _real_ family. Remus doesn’t get to take a giant gaping slice out of each of those things just because Patton pities him.

The moment Roman had set in place his divide, carefully picking out the parts of his imagination that he could bare to part with and set aside, like parting with his own children, the places he’s enchanted and manicured and _loved_ , Remus had set about destroying it. The first thing Remus had done was _roll_ , all the way down a finely sculpted slope of hill that Roman had smoothed out by hand in the earliest days of the imagination’s existence.

He had cackled in delight and torn up the grass—and _oh_ , Roman feels faint just thinking about it—Roman’s purple pampas, his lilies, his stargazers, his guiltless little gardenias, all beautiful impossible combinations of every flower under the sun, ones he used to stroke the petals of in thought and ones he would lay in for solace, all uprooted and rolled over by Remus’ stupid dumptruck of a body.

A third of his home away from home. Gone. Demolished. Disassembled. And Roman had watched with clenched fists as it happened. As a part of himself was taken away from him by greedy, unworthy hands.

This was for Patton, he had to remind himself. This is _Patton’s_ passion project, the growth of Thomas, the expansion of the mindscape, Thomas-Two-Point-O, Patton’s own grapple with acceptance and the precarious understanding of the lesser parts of themselves that they had all long ago agreed to file away and repress for years. 

Whatever. That isn’t the important part of this. 

The point is that Roman had _warned_ Remus, over and over, that if he tiptoed into his sacred space _one more time_ to leave those tacky little sticky notes with a bunch of crude and gross ideas all over his beloved field of wisteria trees, Roman was going to _riot_ , and it would end well for no one.

It’s Remus’ fault, really. Everything is Remus’ fault. Remus is simply rotten, didn’t you know?

It wasn’t just _any_ area of Roman’s portion of the imagination that Remus had tampered with—it hadn’t even been the part Roman had dedicated for letting off steam and wrecking things himself, _no_ , it had been the singular, secular, untouched patch he had dedicated to Patton. A breathtaking pristine little island of trees, reflective of every one of Patton’s little nuances, all equal parts soft and sweet and good and petunia-filled. It was a corner of his space that he’d hoped to one day share with Patton, to present to him as a gift. 

Now, in just a week’s time, it had wilted. Remus had infested it, with ugly little weeds, eating away at the perfect pH of the soil, sapping precious energy from his once elegant towering Japanese Wisteria trees, a forest that Roman had raised from the ground himself, with his own hands. A sapling planted for every time Patton had inspired him.

Now, the forest and its thickets are infested with thorn thistles, stinking corpse lilies, cockscomb (because of _course_ , the impropriety of it), red rattles, _poison ivy_.

Now, it’s putrid.

Now, it’s been taken from him.

Now, Patton’s kindness had been taunted and stepped on, his spirit infected with Remus’ ugly tamperings.

Now, it’s all _ruined_.

Roman sees red for several reasons. So, he takes sand from the dunes he and Remus share, he crushes handful after handful in his palms furiously until he’s left with that herd of horrid horses—you remember, the mean ones, from earlier? He makes them scrappy and mean and hulkish and angry and restless. He makes them big and looming and hungry for a color he **hates**.

So.

Yeah.

Remus breaks a few ribs. And gets a few scrapes. And gets a host of angry bruising bites that dent his pale skin and turn purple-yellow at the edges. Because he deserves it.

And yes, granted, Roman had laughed. He had laughed and harrumphed until Remus’ pleasantly surprised cackles had morphed into piercing, pained, ugly two-toned screams, had devolved to _begging_ , and Roman had rushed right down to put out his own figurative fire.

It could have been worse! That’s what nobody is focusing on!

Even Virgil winces in sympathy when Roman drags a barely conscious Remus into the commons.

Patton screams, and it’s devastating, he looks _devastated_ , panicked, and Janus looks...impartial. He looks like he’d been expecting this, which, _rude_ , he could have at _least_ given Roman a fair warning if he was going to go all future-vision on him and look so unaffected. That was wearing on Roman’s nerves even more, somehow.

Logan assesses the damage as Remus slips in and out of consciousness, and Patton brings shaky hands up to cradle his lulling face in his hands. And Roman gets _jealous_ , okay?

He scoffs and he sputters and he says mean biting words about Remus being fine and deserving every little bit of the petty retaliation—but Patton’s sharp intake of breath, the way he tenses and turns to Roman with wide, unbelieving eyes, looking through him and at him all at once somehow—it makes Roman feel like the worst thing to exist since, well, since _Remus_ was born.

“Roman.” Patton’s voice warbles, “You—you _did_ this, Roman?”

All eyes turn sharply to him. Even Virgil looks appalled and stunned. Not fair. Virgil hates his fellow reformed dark sides even more than Roman does. This is bull. Roman is calling bull.

Logan, too, looks to him with a million questions in his eyes. Roman tries not to read too much into it. Instead, he crosses his arms and averts his eyes as he sniffs and shrugs.

“Is he going to be okay?” Patton turns his big teary heartbreaking doe-eyes to anyone that might have an answer.

Janus hops down from his spot on the counter, “Of _course_ not, it’s not like Remus is the _poster child_ for _indestructibility_ or anything. He’s _never_ been in a situation like _this_ before.” Virgil shoots him a warning look as Patton’s face crumples.

“Try again.” Virgil glares.

Janus sighs at Virgil, with _feeling_ , “Fine. It’ll be _okay_. He’ll bounce back. This is hardly the first time he’s been injured.”

Patton makes a wounded, sympathetic noise at that, all of his worry and fret and paternal instincts rolled into a Very Sad Sound.

Janus cards a hand through the mussed up silver of Remus’ bangs, brushes them back with a tenderness that counters every deceptively casual overtone in Janus' body.

Remus makes a pained little groan and leans into it, it’s the only vaguely I’m-Alive sounding noise he’s made since he fainted.

Janus removes his glove, and everyone tries very hard not to stare out of courtesy.

He places a serpentine hand to Remus’ temple, and hums.

“This time it might...take a while, though. This isn’t just damage he inflicted on himself. If it involved his better half, it’s going to take a lot longer to recover from. Not undoable, but also not very pleasant.”

“How long.” Patton says it hollowly, without the true inflection of a question. Empty. Roman’s guilt churns a hole into the pit of his stomach.

Janus purses his lip carefully, “A month. Maybe. If he doesn’t do any figurative stitch-pulling or throw himself into anything dangerous.”

But this is Remus they’re talking about here. And Patton knows what that means. It means a few months of Remus tearing his wounds open over and over until he exhausts himself and collapses hard into a pit of dreamlessness to heal fitfully and feverishly.

“We’ll have to keep him put. It’s going to be…” Janus waves a hand and conjures something that looks like a glorified zip tie, “...a challenge.”

“Kinky.” Virgil mocks, tamping his own shit-eating grin with a roll of his tongue in his cheek.

Janus rolls his eyes so hard that for a second Roman fears they might pop right out, “They’re _medical_ restraints. He’s a bratty, insufferable child. Like _you_.” Janus tugs Virgil’s hood over his eyes.

Janus continues, “You’re going to need these.” he conjures a few more restraints in each hand, all six of them, they spring out of his sides with the flourish of a magician, “You’ll thank me later.”

Roman begrudgingly replaces the couch with a big bed, since the commons is the only place where they can all reliably convene if they’re really going to take on the task of nursing Remus back to health. 

For lack of a better word, they shackle him. They wrap the thick, soft foamy straps onto Remus’ wrists and ankles, and they buckle them tight enough to make sure he can’t escape them, but loose enough not to hurt. Patton makes sure.

For extra precaution, Janus slips these weird padded mitten guards onto Remus’ hands. They’re shaped like soft little oven mitts and they look stupid and Roman hopes Remus is embarrassed when he wakes up. 

He’s expecting Remus to be morbidly delighted when he finally stirs hours later. He’s expecting gross quips about bondage that make half of them cringe and Remus cackle.

The _last_ thing Roman expects is hellish, ungodly screaming, two-toned and harsh and frenzied. Janus is at Remus’ side in an instant. 

He almost gets his fingers bitten off.

It takes Virgil hauling Janus back by the collar of his caplet to just barely avoid the second angry clamp of Remus’ teeth. When Janus pulls back, he looks devastated.

Remus thrashes so hard the bed lifts and drops, slams down over and over. He’s snarling and spitting and kicking and straining against the restraints so hard Roman thinks they might all snap. One of them _does_ snap, and he gets his hand loose at the wrist.

He doesn’t even look fazed.

He’s still screaming, mouth twisting around a hellish cacophony of, “ **LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME** **_OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT_ **”

Roman’s never seen Remus look so _infuriated_. Roman’s never been so _scared_.

Logan is talking, quickly, quicker than Roman’s ever seen him talk, Virgil is _yelling_ , cursing, pressing his hands against Janus’ chest to keep him from trying again, Janus is looking at his hand, at his glove torn to shreds, his eyes keep flickering back to Remus. And Roman. Roman isn’t moving. He can’t move. His knees are trembling. What could he even do if he _could_ move?

It takes so much of his willpower just to turn his head, to watch with _horror_ as Patton steps forward. Roman’s throat constricts.

Patton is walking, walking so calmly. Remus tries to turn his head, to crane it to hiss at Patton straight on, but he can’t, so he settles for twisting his head at a ridiculous angle to snarl at him.

With a trembling hand, Patton reaches out.

Virgil screams, “ **DON’T—** ”

But it’s too late. Patton’s hand finds Remus’ hair. Remus can’t reach him, try as he might, gnashing his teeth and spitting. Patton is saying something, Roman can’t make out what it is.

Patton is murmuring, sweet nothings, stroking Remus’ sweat-slicked hair back and away from his face. 

Gradually, with herculean effort, Remus’ violent thrashing stills. He blinks, chest still heaving. He looks so helplessly confused. If Roman didn’t know any better, he’d say Remus looks _afraid_. He’s trembling now. High-pitched little whines are spilling out of him, broken and helpless and too awful for Roman to keep listening to.

Patton must feel the same, because he’s shushing him, petting his hair so gently, sweeter and kinder than Remus has probably ever been treated since he came into existence.

Patton’s still trembling, but Remus’ cries are finally dying down. His breath is slowing, he’s relaxing, eyes fluttering.

Everyone recovers from the chaos slowly.

Very, very, slowly.

Patton conjures pajamas for Remus, a soft Stitch-themed onesie with a hood and teeth and ears—the works. It looks fitted and comfortable and snug and like something Patton’s been working on for a while. 

Logan looks carefully over Janus’ hand, checking for any superficial wounds that might need tending to, and Virgil loiters behind them pretending VERY LOUDLY not to care. 

Roman watches as Patton keeps stroking Remus’ hair with tenderness and tells himself he isn’t bothered. Not even a little.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out, Roman is _extremely_ bothered. 

Go figure.

Ever since that first turbulent night, Remus and Patton have been _obnoxiously_ inseparable. 

Now that Remus has realized he can have Patton’s affections at the drop of a hat, he clings to him and begs for physical touch _constantly_.

It’s like he’s discovered a switch that lets him have all of the embraces and attention and good food he could ever want and he won’t stop flipping it, if only to see how far he can push Patton before he draws a line and turns him away.

Except Patton hasn’t. Not even once. 

When Remus petulantly demands juice, Patton is already making him gooey peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich slices to go with it. He serves them on a little wooden tray along with a tall glass of apple juice, and Remus is left blinking down at the lovely assortment, thoroughly startled until Patton presses a soft kiss into his hair (freshly shampooed and rinsed, courtesy of Janus, of course.) and leaves him to eat in peace.

When Remus whines about his shoulder aching from the bites the horses left, Patton is right behind him smoothing ointment into them. 

When Remus has had a particularly restless night, the type where he can’t bear to sit still, Patton helps him stretch gently. He gets him to eat. He eases headphones onto Remus’ head so that he can listen to true crime podcasts to get his mind off of the incessant ache in his legs. (With large thanks to Logan for sifting through the episodes for one that was appropriate.)

When Remus gets dangerously bored, Patton makes a game of tracing words into his collarbones, and if Remus guesses the words right, Patton hand-feeds him french fries. 

When Remus looks frustrated at his lack of mobility, Patton promises that it won’t be for much longer, and he sits at his bedside and pets his hair back until Remus goes oddly quiet and fidgets before asking Patton to lay with him. Patton obliges, laying his head on Remus’ chest and sinking into his side.

It comes to the point where they stop needing the restraints altogether, because Remus tails Patton like a lovesick puppy. Wherever Patton goes, Remus knows soft caresses and forehead kisses will follow.

Even when they’ve all been summoned, Remus is tacked to Patton, leaning on his shoulder, hugging his waist protectively, or sitting at his feet placidly. 

It’s worse when they have leisure days off, because that means Patton will be in the commons checking on Remus openly, gently changing his bandages, giving him lopsided little grins when Remus tries his hand at puns, all things that used to belong to _Roman._

He used to come back from adventures bruised and hurting, insisting it was all in a day’s work, and Virgil would roll his eyes, but Patton would be at his side instantly, fretting over his cuts, the calluses on his palm, the tension in his shoulders, and all of them would be gone by dinner under Patton’s careful attention.

Now, when Roman returns from the Imagination with his many bruises and battle wounds, Patton hurriedly passes him strips of gauze and presses a quick kiss to his forehead before sending him off to tend to himself.

And that’s fine. 

_Obviously._

This is fine. 

Roman is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Patton isn’t his keeper or anything. 

Roman is an _adult._ And this is _fine._

He has Logan, who gladly steps in to help wrap up the wounds that Roman can’t reach. He may not be as gentle as Patton, and he may not have warm deft fingers that tug on the bandages carefully after applying them to check if they’re too tight, or the desire to hug Roman snuggly afterwards, but he gets the job done, and that’s all that really matters. 

During last week’s movie night, Remus had stretched greedily over Patton’s lap, and Patton had scratched softly at the spaces between his ribs until Remus flipped himself onto his stomach for the same treatment on his back. 

Patton had leaned in and murmured something soft and close to Remus’ ear, far too quiet for Roman to hear, no matter how hard he strained to eavesdrop. Whatever it was, Remus only nodded excitedly and sank further into Patton’s lap.

Patton used to nuzzle up against _Roman’s_ side during movie nights, and Roman would nudge him during the good parts. They’d whisper and giggle and conspire until either Logan or Virgil (usually both of them in tangent) would grouse and tell them to respect the purity of their make-believe movie theater. 

Roman would of course invite them to _make him._ Virgil would rise to the challenge and toss popcorn at Roman vengefully, and Roman would try to catch the ammo in his mouth to spite him right back.

Then, of course, they’d _have_ to stop the movie night there, because a war was obviously in order. 

Virgil would win each time, mostly because of Logan’s precise throws, but neither of them would concede to that. And Roman would grumble faintly until Patton would reach out and pull him back against his chest and encourage him gently to pick another movie out, anything he wants, because Patton loves everything he chooses.

Fast-forward to now and look at how _today’s_ movie night is going.

Patton is sitting on the floor, with Remus sandwiched between his knees. Patton’s got his arms wound around his shoulders and he’s rubbing soothing circles into Remus’ chest, firm and pressured the way Remus likes.

Janus is on the carpet too. He’s sat at Logan’s feet, daring to be hatless, with his arms wrapped around his knees, looking softer than he has any right to. 

He always makes himself look so _small_ , like he’s coiled up into a tight little ball. A part of Roman understands the significance of Janus finally _letting_ himself be so small around them, now that he can live without being antagonized for doing his job. It’s like the fight’s been drained from him. It’s a far cry from his intimidating struts and snobby sinister gestures. 

A small Jan is a relaxed Jan. 

It is a Janus who’s learning to let his guard down and doesn’t have to puff himself up and poise for attack.

Janus allows himself the occasional side-glance at Patton and Remus, like he’s checking on them. It looks paternal, almost, if Roman didn’t know any better. Something in Janus’ eyes softens when he takes in the sight of them, of Remus finally relaxed and boneless with affection.

Remus isn’t even paying _attention_ to the movie, he’s gone slack in Patton’s gentle hold. Patton at the very least looks absolutely riveted, eyes fixed to the screen as he absently strokes Remus’ hair forward and forward until it’s a ruffled mess of silver and chestnut. 

It gives Roman no small amount of relief to know that at the very least Patton still likes Roman’s movie picks.

Patton should be next to Roman right now, nudging him at the funny bits and laughing into Roman’s arm. 

But instead he’s stuck sitting with Remus.

And the worst part? No one _cares._

Not even _Virgil_ has a problem with it.

Virgil has a problem with _everything!_

No one is going to question it? _Really?_ Is everyone else too self-involved to be _disturbed_ by this?

Ridiculous. Roman has to do _everything_ in this house.

He can’t even concentrate on his projects anymore. Logan seems to only care about how Roman is _feeling_ lately, which is a new kind of weird, so Roman stops bringing him unpolished ideas. If Logan suddenly wants to stall his work, he’ll have to pry the unfinished product from Roman’s _cold, dead hands_. 

Every time they convene and Roman is asked for his input, he moves to speak but can’t tear his focus away from Patton's blinding grin, Remus’ arm slung over his shoulder, them playing rock-paper-scissors quietly behind their backs to pass the time. 

Patton’s eyes are off of Roman, always. It’s like he’s forgotten him.

It’s _fine_.

Roman can stomach it. He can self-soothe. He doesn't _need_ anyone to like him to feel worthy of something. 

He goes off on his own quests and daydream-fueled adventures in the Imagination. Alone. 

He takes stock of the dreams Thomas has at night, collects the differently colored orbs in his arms, each one like a snow globe, and he tweaks a few of the recurring ones. He even goes the extra mile and polishes the older, heavier ones that Thomas keeps tucked away in the Subconscious, and tries his hand at vanquishing the nightmares. 

He makes a few new dreams, too. To prove to himself that he’s still got it, maybe. That he’s still worth keeping around even if he hasn’t been generating the best ideas lately. At the very least, he can make sure Thomas has a fantastical sleep.

Soon, he starts engrossing himself in his work. He stays up late working on drafts and scripts for a million different projects, even the ones he had filed away as failures, and he doesn’t come out of his room. Not for movie nights, not for breakfast, not for leisure, and only _rarely_ when he’s summoned. Even then, he gives quick input and ignores Patton's worried eyes, disappears before any of them can ask him anything personal. Even Logan is beginning to look concerned.

Patton starts leaving little folded up notes with the tinfoiled meals Roman skips.

  
  


_Hey Roman! I’m proud of how hard you’re working! But remember to get some sleep!_

_\- Pat_

  
  


_Roman!!! I saw a ladybug in the kitchen today! I think it came from the Imagination, is it one of yours?_

_\- Pat_

(It was definitely Roman’s ladybug. A few days after that note, Patton had slipped him a little tupperware container with the still flitting ladybug in good health and ready to be released right back into his carefully kept-after meadows.)

_We all miss you at the dinner table, kiddo! Eat the veggies too!_ 💙

_\- Pat_

  
  


_Hey Roman! If you need to talk, you know my door is always open! :)_

_\- Pat_

  
  


_Roman, we’re playing board games later! Hope to see you there! Hugs and kisses!!!_

_\- Pat_

_Roman!!! I love you and I miss you! Come sit down for breakfast soon, please!_

_\- Pat_

_Are you remembering to set your alarm? (p.s. I made your favorite for dessert!)_

_\- Pat_

(That particular night, the chocolate chip cookies left piled neatly on a folded napkin at Roman’s door had tasted bittersweet, a distinct undercurrent of sour nervousness that made them almost inedible.)

_Lunch is in a bit, please please please come down to eat in person?_

_\- Pat_

  
  


_Come down whenever you’re ready, okay?_

_\- Pat_

  
  


The notes have been getting more and more desperate, and Roman is less and less inclined with every passing day to show his face again. 

Leaving his room means running into Patton. It means being the only one bothered by Remus wrapping himself around Patton like a coil. It means dealing with the empty, gnawing feeling in his gut whenever he sees Patton brush Remus’ hair away from his face, or compliment the streak in it. 

It means resurrecting all of the times he’s ever disappointed Patton, and ruminating about all of the reasons he might not be Patton’s _favorite_ anymore.

Had he only ever been the favorite out of necessity?

He hates this. He hates this _so much_. He hates this awful twisting feeling in his gut that won’t let him eat. He hates how he can’t just will it away. He hates that he can’t even think about facing Patton without the feeling striking him. He hates the notes cluttering his desk. He wants so badly to hate the bubbly chicken scratch on them too. He hates that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t.

  
*****

It's about a month into his disappearing act when, out of every side that could conceivably come to his rescue, _Virgil_ comes pounding on his door.

“ _Dude_.” Virgil is already making exasperated hand motions before Roman has even swung the door open fully.

It’s too early for this, Roman decides. 

Or maybe it's too late for this. Just maybe. He can’t really tell anymore.

Roman blinks slowly at Virgil, feeling sluggish and generally awful, “What?”

“You’ve been up here for weeks. Patton is worried. _I’m_ worried.”

“And I’m _busy_.” Roman shrugs stiffly.

Virgil bristles, “Oh _bullshit_. Something’s eating you and you think you can deal with it by shutting everyone out. That’s not going to work. You’re only hurting yourself, and _that’s_ really hurting Patton.” Virgil pokes him in the chest and Roman broodily refuses to look him in the eyes.

Virgil lets his words sit with him for a while, arms crossed.

Roman shifts from foot to foot carefully. Then huffs.

“Fine. I’ll be down tomorrow.”

“Good.” Virgil shoves a warm plate into his arms, “I took the broccoli out for you, so make sure you eat this time. I _mean_ it, Sanders.”

Virgil points at him. This is a threat. 

Virgil sinks and Roman sticks his tongue out as he recedes.

*****

When Roman finally gathers enough courage to emerge, he makes it a point to wake up _hours_ before anyone else so that he has ample time to sit and sulk alone in the dim light of the kitchen and soak in self-pity.

He sits in his usual breakfast chair, the one he built for himself, which he’s missed _greatly_ , more than he realized. He occupies himself by conjuring his idea notebook and scribbling nonsense in the margins of it. He doodles a canary bird, the kind Patton likes.

A soft click of a door upstairs tells him he’s not alone anymore.

He ducks his head and pretends to be engrossed in his scribbles. 

He mostly succeeds until he feels two warm arms wind all the way around his shoulders. 

He leans back into the hold, whoever is offering it, because he can’t help it. Whoever is hugging him is warm and inviting, and the embrace feels so very welcomed after going so long without so much as talking to anyone.

“ _Roman_!” 

And of course it’s Patton. It’s always Patton. He feels Patton shift, “Is—is it really _— Roman_, I _missed_ you.”

He feels Patton press a dozen rapid little kisses into his scalp, and he shivers. He brings a hand up to rest on one of Patton’s arms and leans further back into him. Patton has his sweater on today, the soft gray one he ties around his shoulders. He usually only wears it when he’s not feeling too hot.

It strikes Roman suddenly that this is all he’s really wanted for months now. He’s wanted Patton to touch him again, and be here for him, and be _with_ him and he just—really, really needed these long, lazy mornings with Patton back, okay?

There is no hefty climax or emotional upheaval, just the steady realization that Roman has missed this, and that it may not be perfect, might not be even close to it, and probably won’t be for a while, but that it’s something he can work with. 

They’re both quiet for a long time, breathing easy between each other, relishing in their togetherness. It’s always been easy between them, _always_.

“Where did _you_ go off to for so long, huh, mister?” Patton murmurs into Roman’s neck, his words tentative and soft. He nuzzles into Roman’s collarbone gently, “Had me pretty darn worried for a second there.”

For all of the subtleties that Patton appears to lack, Roman knows well enough that Patton is attuned to his nuances. He knows when _not_ to ask questions and when to let certain things go. 

Roman adores him all the more for it.

Patton won’t push it if Roman doesn’t expressly want him to.

Roman presses his lips together in careful thought. He takes Patton by the hand, motions for him to come closer. 

He lifts him onto his lap, and Patton perches there gently.

“I needed some time, I think.” Roman mumbles into Patton’s knuckles, “To come to term with a few things. I was figuring out my place here. If I still have one, I guess.” he shrugs half-heartedly.

Patton gasps softly, “Of _course_ you have a place here, Roman Sanders. You’ll _always_ have one. Don’t you ever think otherwise, mister.” he says firmly, caressing Roman’s cheek, “You’re stuck with us.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sunshine.” Roman leans into the touch. When he pulls back, it's to hold Patton's hands in his own, “I’m sorry. For being away for so long.”

“You came back to me, though.” Patton smiles, running a hand through Roman’s hair, “You always do.”

“Of course. A little artist block never keeps me down too long.” Roman pauses, “Well. Usually.”

Patton makes a small sympathetic noise at the back of his throat and scratches at Roman’s scalp with gentle fingers, “Poor baby, is there anything I can do?”

Roman thinks for a moment. Hesitates. “Actually. There is.”

“Well, I’m all ears.” Patton grins.

Roman smiles right back. He tilts his head just so, meeting Patton’s wide doe-eyes at a clumsy angle. He leans in a little bit so that they can bump noses. Softly, he shakes his head.

Patton chortles delightedly, his smile is syrupy sweet and infectious, “Roman!”

“Bunny kisses, padre.” Roman grins, and he does it again and again until Patton’s laughing and reaching up to cup Roman’s jaw softly. 

Roman doesn’t ever want to move on from this moment. He wants to do what Patton does with scents and memories and condense this feeling into a keepsake so that he can revisit it as many times as he wishes. He wonders for a moment if he could ask Patton to do that for him. 

He wants to hold Patton in this spot forever and soak in his warmth, his goodness, the happiness and relief radiating from him in the most literal sense possible.

“Now, I’m not sure how this helps, but whatever you need, I want to give.” Patton says giddily, tracing over Roman’s cheekbones with his thumbs. 

“You’re my muse.” Roman feels compelled to share suddenly.

Patton's smile falters into a look of wonderment and confusion, “Well. The thought sure is nice and all, but I’m sure there are plenty of other things in Thomas’ life that inspire you.”

“There is.” Roman admits, taking Patton’s hand in his own and caressing his knuckles with his thumb, “But you’re my favorite. Thinking of you works every time.”

Patton’s smile comes back slowly, melting onto his face sweetly. It’s blindingly authentic and bright. Patton leans in to bump their foreheads together gently.

“Uh…”

They look up.

Virgil is toeing the entrance of the kitchen in his pajamas, shifting from foot to foot slowly and looking awkwardly between them, generally uncomfortable, like he knows he’s stumbled upon something intimate, “I just wanted to see if...breakfast was ready?” he says, strained and hopeful.

*****

They settle for something easy. Rice krispies, mostly because Patton is craving them, and some toast. Virgil takes care of the latter, because he doesn’t trust Roman _or_ Patton with hot appliances, _especially_ when they’re together—rightfully so. 

Logan steps in about half an hour later, Janus in toe, and they crack and scramble eggs between one another in harmony, chatting quietly and amicably. Roman plays _Party in the USA_ and twirls a giggling Patton in between mixing krispies into a pot of melty marshmallows. 

It’s normal. It’s good. It’s wonderful. He’s missed this so much. He missed his family. 

Remus comes ambling groggily down the stairs some time later, slouched and eyes half lidded, in his torn camo-printed tank top that’s seen more wear and damage than any clothing ought to.

His eyes find Patton immediately, and he grins one of his manic toothy-grins. This one’s a little softer at the edges, though.

Roman turns his back when Patton goes to greet him, tiptoeing to hug Remus’ broad shoulders and inviting him further into the kitchen, taking him by the hand. 

That gnawing feeling is back, but it’s bite-sized now. He and Patton have their waltzes, and they will always have their shared existence, and they’ve established their steady stream of eskimo kisses, and they will have their precious moments forever. They will never _not_ have those moments.

Remus rears up behind Roman and noogies him, so Roman takes a deep, grounding breath, turns, and noogies him right back.

They interlock in a tussle, with Patton on the sidelines worriedly warning Roman to be mindful of Remus’ healing stitches, to which Roman begrudgingly obliges. When it’s clear that their rough-housing is just that—harmless roughhousing, Virgil starts narrating the battle like a sports announcer, smiling whenever Janus snorts at the commentary, and Logan tuts about there being a mess to clean.

They get marshmallow goop in each other’s hair, but Roman can’t bring himself to mind. A fit of laughter bubbles up in Roman unexpectedly, and to his own surprise, he lets it take its course.  
  


*****

Roman starts making an actual effort to _tell_ Patton what he wants and how he’s feeling—a wild concept. He slowly learns how to unbury his insecurities and bear them to a soft audience, and Patton is the softest audience he’ll ever know. 

Patton steadily begins to pick up on Roman’s subtle (read: not-so-subtle) tells.

When Roman sulks quietly during breakfast as Patton serves Remus extra helpings, Patton kisses the back of Roman’s neck softly as he places his plate in front of him.

When he and Remus return from the Imagination, their hair tousled and matted from hours of sword-fights and racing, they wrestle playfully for the rights to Patton’s impromptu care, and then both deflate when Janus and Logan step in, equally annoyed, to tend to them both with calculated coldness. 

It’s only fair.

Remus might get to lay on Patton during movie nights now, but Patton makes it a point to alternate each week. 

Just last night, he pressed himself snuggly against Roman’s side on his throne of cushions and throw pillows. Roman had gotten to wrap an arm around Patton’s shoulder and pull him in close so he could press kisses into his hair. 

Patton had turned into his neck to laugh every few minutes, and Roman could have sworn he’s never been happier.

If this is what equilibrium in the mindscape means, Roman supposes he can handle it. 


End file.
